


Ghostless

by smarshtastic



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, season of the hunt spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: “You were due back yesterday,” Saint says.“There was a… complication,” Osiris replies.“You’re hurt,” Saint says.“That was the complication,” Osiris says.---After facing the Hive on the Moon, Osiris returns to the Tower and Saint-14 fusses.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 149





	Ghostless

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so, I'm supposed to be writing original stuff for NaNoWriMo but Osiris/Saint-14 has suddenly taken over my brain. Have a small, post-mission fic that I needed to get out of my head. Also, please go read Immolant ([1](https://www.bungie.net/en/Explore/Detail/News/49746), [2](https://www.bungie.net/en/Explore/Detail/News/49747)) and scream with me. 
> 
> Big Thanks [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/pseuds/fabrega/works) for the quick beta and for tolerating my new obsession. 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/smarshtastic), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/mcreyes), and [tumblr](https://wictorwictor.tumblr.com/) ♥

Osiris doesn’t return to the Tower immediately, even though several of his wounds probably need immediate medical attention. No, instead he gathers the few pieces that remain of Sagira and takes them somewhere private, somewhere special, somewhere safe, so that he can honor his fallen companion. 

Only then does he return to the Tower, limping, his entire body aching in a way that’s wholly unfamiliar. Sagira would’ve patched him up in an instant. Instead, Osiris has to take himself to the Vanguard’s infirmary and subject himself to the care of the Last City’s finest. It feels indecent to be poked and prodded by these people, as well-meaning as they are. Osiris leaves the infirmary before they even manage to get a look under his armor. 

Saint-14 appears moments after Osiris walks into a borrowed room near the Vanguard’s quarters. Osiris barely turns around even as Saint’s massive shadow fills the doorway. 

“You were due back yesterday,” Saint says. Osiris doesn’t look up from his bag. There’s moon dust everywhere, clinging to all of the nooks and crannies of his things and sticking to his skin underneath his armor. Everything feels too heavy on his wounded body. 

“There was a… complication,” Osiris replies. He finds the book he was looking for and shoves the bag under a side table by the bed. He can already feel Saint’s disapproving stare. 

“You’re hurt,” Saint says. 

“That was the complication,” Osiris says. He turns around, finally, to face Saint. His helm is off, which means Osiris is immediately faced with Saint’s disapproving, _worried_ expression. Osiris has been on the receiving end of that expression enough not to squirm - at least visibly - but it still makes a twinge of guilt flicker in his chest. 

“Where’s Sagira?” Saint asks. Geppetto hovers over his shoulder expectantly. Osiris has to look away again. 

“She…” Osiris starts to say, but finds that the words stick in his throat. He swallows around the lump. “She’s gone.” 

Saint’s face does something complicated before he closes the distance between them. He pulls Osiris in tight - too tight, Saint never really remembers how strong he is. Osiris winces but doesn’t pull away. He sags into Saint’s arms, letting his head fall against his shoulder, and he closes his eyes, briefly letting himself give in to the weariness that he’s tried so hard to ignore, just for a moment. He feels Saint’s arms tighten around him, as if Saint can tell Osiris is about to pull away. 

“Have you been to the infirmary yet?” Saint asks, his voice low in Osiris’s ear. He finally lets Osiris pull away so he can look at his face. Osiris shrugs with one shoulder, avoiding Saint’s eyes. 

“I’m fine,” Osiris says. “Don’t fuss.” 

“You’re impossible,” Saint says with no venom in his voice. 

“Humans existed for thousands of years before ghosts came along,” Osiris says. 

“You haven’t existed without a ghost for very long at all,” Saint says. “Let me have a look.” 

“You’re no doctor,” Osiris says. 

“As if you’d listen to one,” Saint scoffs. “Sit, rest. I’ll be right back.” 

Saint disappears through the doorway again and Osiris turns back to the bedside, reaching underneath for the bag. His fingers find a small, hidden compartment inside - it’s the place he usually hides Saint’s letters, but instead he finds one small piece of Sagira’s shell, scuffed by the explosion of Light. He rubs his thumb over the cool metal. His chest clenches and he has to close his eyes to steady himself. He’s lived thousands of lifetimes through his echoes, but, today, he feels old. 

Saint comes back with a medkit. He lets himself into Osiris’s borrowed room without knocking this time, letting the door slide closed behind him with a click. Osiris sets the piece of Sagira’s shell on the nightstand as Saint comes towards him. 

“Now, let’s see,” Saint says. 

Slowly, painfully, Osiris strips off his armor piece by piece. It’s better than letting the Vanguard’s doctors see him this way, but still; Osiris is strangely self-conscious in this state, in front of Saint. He lets Saint step in close to help, handing him each piece of his armor to put aside, leaning on him as he unclips his greaves. The thin layer of clothes under his armor sticks to his skin, the blood already scabbed in places. He avoids Saint’s eyes again as he stands there, exposed. 

“You fought hard,” Saint observes. Osiris nods. “Sit, then.” 

Osiris does so, perching on the edge of the bed as Saint kneels in front of him. Saint works from Osiris’s feet up, holding each part of him in his strong, steady hands, cleaning Osiris’s wounds with slow, careful motions. Saint peels away Osiris’s under layers as he goes, dropping the ruined pieces to the floor and setting the salvageable pieces aside to be laundered. He cleanses Osiris of blood, of moon dust, of Hive gunk, and the Traveller only knows what else - what Osiris needs is a shower, really, not the medicated wipes that Saint so carefully runs over Osiris’s skin. There are scorch marks and burns that Saint does his best to clean without hurting Osiris, but his body is so sore and tender that every little touch makes Osiris wince. Saint puts a hand on Osiris’s thigh as if to steady him. He looks up into Osiris’s eyes as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Osiris knows what he’d say, anyway; they’ve known each other too long. Saint will save his nagging for another time. 

“She shouldn’t have…” Osiris starts to say. Saint shushes him. 

“You have more battles to fight,” Saint says. 

“Perhaps not,” Osiris says. He lets out a small, bitter laugh. “Not like this.” 

“I thought you were a warlock, not a titan. You have more to offer than brute strength,” Saint says lightly. Osiris just shakes his head. 

Saint gets to the big wound in Osiris’s side - the one that would have taken his life, had Sagira not sacrificed hers. Her Light had closed the worst of it, but it still oozes blood, the singed edges of the wound ragged and raw. Osiris feels Saint’s hand hesitate. 

“It’s fine,” Osiris says. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Saint says. He presses his hand to the center of Osiris’s chest, warm and heavy, as he looks into Osiris’s eyes. There’s worry in his look, more than usual. “You’re reckless.” 

“How long have you known me?” 

Saint doesn’t have an answer for him. He traces the edge of the wound with his fingers, his touch light and gentle. Osiris closes his eyes against the pain as Saint does his best to clean out the wound. He covers it in clean gauze which he secures in place by wrapping Osiris’s chest with bandages. Osiris thinks vaguely of the decorations from the Festival of the Lost and feels another pang for Sagira. 

Osiris doesn’t open his eyes again until Saint cups his cheek. He leans his head into Saint’s hand instinctively, without any of his usual stubbornness. He looks into Saint’s eyes and tries to ignore the ache in his chest. 

“You are not alone,” Saint says. His words startle Osiris - it’s as if Saint somehow read his mind. After so many years, Osiris shouldn’t be surprised any more. But Saint is full of surprises. 

“I know that,” Osiris says petulantly. Saint rubs his thumb over Osiris’s cheekbone. He leans in to press a small, chaste kiss to Osiris’s mouth. 

“It’s worth saying out loud,” Saint says. He drops his hand to Osiris’s shoulder. “You should rest.” 

“There’s still work to be done,” Osiris says. He tries to get up from the bed, but Saint’s hand tightens on his shoulder, pushing him back down to the bed, gently yet firmly. 

“You can rest for one night,” Saint says. 

“Saint,” Osiris starts to say. 

“Please,” Saint says. “For me, if not for yourself.” 

Osiris sags a little under Saint’s hand. “Very well.” 

Saint stands, letting go of Osiris’s shoulder with the assurance that he will, for once, stay put. He gathers up the discarded medical wipes and shoves them back into the medkit. Osiris looks down at the bandages circling his chest. When he looks up again, Saint is holding out a bundle of clothes that Osiris didn’t notice before. He blinks at the bundle. 

“Put these on, and we will rest,” Saint says. Osiris stands to do so - it’s much easier to give into these little requests than the other promises Saint sometimes asks of him. Letters, poems, more time in the Tower. Now, the latter might be unavoidable. Would it be so bad? Saint is watching him pull on the clean clothes. Osiris tries to imagine what it would be like to stay here, with Saint. Sagira would tell him that he can still do plenty of good from the safety of the Tower. He can imagine the teasing note in her voice as she suggests that regular intimacy with Saint might even improve his demeanor. Osiris squeezes his eyes closed again as he sinks back down to the bed. 

“Move over,” Saint says. Osiris reopens his eyes and looks up at him. Saint is toeing off his boots. 

“What?” 

“Move over,” Saint says again. “And lie down. We will rest.” 

Osiris shifts on the bed, which is not nearly big enough for the both of them. He gives Saint a look, but Saint doesn’t seem fazed at all as he lowers himself onto the bed too. The frame protests against their combined weight. Saint’s heavy hand pushes Osiris down to the sheets. Osiris lets himself go down and Saint joins him, pulling Osiris in to his chest. He resists only a little, but his eyes are heavy. Saint cups the back of his head with one hand, holding him close, while the other drapes over Osiris’s waist. 

“Aren’t you going to ask what I did this time?” Osiris asks. He feels the rumble of Saint’s chuckle through his chest. 

“You can tell me tomorrow,” Saint says. Osiris lets his breath out, trying hard to let go of the tension in his bones and to quiet his mind. Saint’s fingers rub lightly over the dip of Osiris’s waist. He’s humming tunelessly and Osiris tries to focus on that, rather than any number of pressing matters that seem to require his attention. Sagira had always accused him of narcissism, but Osiris wasn’t used to being selfish, of allowing himself a moment of indulgence. Maybe tonight he can allow himself, just this once. 


End file.
